


An Enquiry for Lucas Holmes

by Desmonard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desmonard/pseuds/Desmonard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a smart, capable man. In fact, he's been labelled by some as a "true genius". But every once in a while he'll desperately need the help and skill of someone close to him. Someone who will make him beg for it. And that someone is his brother... No, not that brother. The other one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A phone call

**Author's Note:**

> Hello reader, bear with me while I explain this. The titular character is NOT an OC. It's a character from the Bondverse who's pretty smart, sorta Holmes-y looking, who has no given name and... you'll get it, you're smart. Just read on and you'll see the crossover value... thing.

Sherlock Holmes isn’t a man who admits defeat easily. In fact, his blind persistence has led him in multiple times to various scenarios in which he saved his own hide only by the skin of his teeth. He is, as described by John Watson (army doctor, room-mate, blogger), quick-witted, terribly smug and “maybe a bit obsessive”. He has also being described (by most) as stubborn as a mule and mad as bag of badgers.

Every once in a while, Sherlock will find himself in front of a setback that, for the lack of a better term, baffles him. Mind you, this isn’t a common occurrence and by no means would a man like Sherlock Holmes allow a minor hindrance to thwart his most vital investigations. If he’s in need of help, he’ll get it. He isn’t too proud to ask, although he’d rather do it as seldom as possible. And yet, there’s one thing he hates above anything else: begging. The present situation might include some begging. That’s why our Consulting Detective doesn’t feel like doing anything about this problem at all.

***

After staring at the laptop’s screen for what seemed to him to be hours, Sherlock snapped. He ruffled his hair and stared once again, as intensely as he could. Then he gave up. He grunted deeply and picked up his smartphone, flicking harshly through the contacts **.** Right before calling the person he needed now he halted, rethinking. After pondering on the pros and cons, he pressed the big green button on the touch screen. He was now a couple of rings away from utter humiliation. As the receiver on the other side of the line clicked, Sherlock uttered: “I need your help.”

For a moment, the line remained silent. Sherlock frowned, pursed his lips and held his tongue. He wouldn’t repeat those words. He would not. “… Really?” A thin, almost boyish voice emerged from the opposite side of the line, and with a soft chuckle of disbelief, lapidated Sherlock typical self-confidence. He could feel his cheeks growing hot and pink.  Sherlock limited his answer to an affirmative grunt, much like the one he had let out before. Now the chuckle grew to a full-fledge burst of laughter. Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear and tried to fulminate it with a noxious stare.

He waited a minute or two before raising it back to his ear and coolly asking: “Are you done with that nonsense?” The laughter from the other side was now a couple of breathless chortles mixed with some half cried words and finally, a yes. “Good. I hope you behave like a proper adult when I come to your flat and…”

“Oh, and you’re coming over too?” The recipient interrupted. A subtle pitch of glee could be discerned on his already surprised sounding voice. Sherlock picked up immediately on that.

“Yes, of course I will. I need your help with something… _slightly_ illegal, but I’m quite sure it’s among your many computational abilities. In fact, I bet this measly setback I’m having will be piece of cake for you to solve.”

“Oh, I do love when you suck up to me. It’s a rare occurrence, much like a squiggly rainbow. Allow me to savour it for a while…” The line went silent again. Sherlock couldn’t really hear the mute gloating coming from the phone, but he could feel it. He sighted and heard another soft chuckle.

He was trying his hardest to be patient, biting hard on his lip not to blurt something rude at the _little bugger_. His desperate attempt to convince him was almost stealing his breath away. Sherlock fixed his eyes on the source of conflict, the unresolved issue staring back at him from the computer screen, and inwardly calmed himself by repeating over and over how important this case was. 

Suddenly, the flat's door swung open and a heavily groceries-laden John Watson stumbled into the living room, muttered a greeting to his roommate and then tottered into their small kitchen. Sherlock answer by gasping.

“What was that?” The phone’s voice sounded extremely curious.

“Nothing.” Sherlock closed his eyes and covered them with his left hand, then proceeded to squeeze his nose bridge with annoyance. “For God’s sake Lucas, will you do me a favour for once or not?”

The next phrase from the phone came heavy with childish reproach: “Alright, Mr. Grumpy! But don’t yell at me.”  Lucas then giggled one last time.

John’s curious head poked from the kitchen when expletives came around. “Who are you talking to Sherlock? You sound a bit cross.” John peacefully sipped tea from his mug as he leaned against the doorpost.

“It’s nobody.” He shooed his roommate with his hand. John wouldn’t move though, he was only too used to Sherlock’s shady behaviour. He slightly leaned his head forward and silently asked again by raising his eyebrows. Sherlock groaned, feeling too easily defeated and nodded to appease his friend. “I’ll tell you later. Now just… go and… brew me a cuppa. Please.” John smiled and re-entered the kitchen. Focusing again on his mission, Sherlock hurriedly came back to the telephone conversation: “Okay, so you’ll do it. Good. Can you do it right now?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lucas seemed almost offended by Sherlock’s ridiculous notions. Using an extremely matter-of-fact tone, he reprimanded these silly ideas: “No, I can’t. You see, I’m actually working. Because some of us do make a living in the old-fashioned way. If you want me to do the dirty jobs for you, at least have the decency to adjust and familiarise yourself to my schedule.”

Sherlock’s retort sounded a wee bit more juvenile that he intended it to: “Oh, for crying out loud, when **can** you do it then, Sir I-am-Employed?”

This uncouth remark was met with a full minute of silence. For a terrible moment, Sherlock thought he had managed to muck it all up. Then he heard the flipping of pages and finally a reply: “Hmm, according to my schedule, something I have because I’m an adult, today I’m free after six. No secret mission needs my supervision tonight. Lucky you!” The sarcasm dripped from every single word Lucas said. “You can come around 8, and I’ll be expecting some pastries for my services.”

Those last words sounded more affable, true enough, but Sherlock opted for an extremely polite response now, just to be on the safe side: “Okay, 8 o’clock and pastries, sure. Umm, thanks for… umm… just thanks.” That was incredibly hard to spit out, but he pushed himself to do it.

Before Sherlock could think of hanging up, Lucas added one more condition: “Oh and please do bring your blogger roommate with you. I’m eager to meet him; he seems to be such a nice lad.” He voice was now dreamy and filled with… hope? “He must be some kind of gentle alien or a saint in disguise, because I seriously cannot figure out how he’s able to live and put up with you.” Before Sherlock could even think of complaining, Lucas was spoken to by someone on his side of the line and before replying to his co-worker, he hurriedly hung up, leaving Sherlock with only half a goodbye.

Sherlock had to swallow his frustration as he saw John walking into the living room with some tea for him. Thanking him while mumbling curses, Sherlock crouched on the sofa and fleetingly glanced over John. He had sat opposite to him and seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to start the conversation. “Oh, what is it?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me who that was? ‘Cause it seemed you were more than familiar with this ‘Lucas’ fellow. Christ Sherlock, for a moment I thought you were bickering with Mycroft! And then I remembered you two never use a phone the proper way, or even with each other.” Sherlock quickly drank tea and let the strong flavour distract him for a second. Then he rolled his eyes at John, trying to avoid the subject. “Ow, come on Sherlock. What are you hiding from me now? Who was that, your secret brother?” John’s words were obviously meant as a joke. He lay back on his couch and smiled broadly at his friend.

With those very words, Sherlock almost choked. He coughed up some of the tea he had just sipped and was barely able to messily leave his mug over the coffee table. “What… how did you know? How could you _possibly_ know that?”

John stared blankly at Sherlock. Then he muttered incredulously: “I’m sorry… what?”  


	2. A bit of a row

John kept staring at Sherlock, with absolutely no words for him. Sherlock was keeping himself busy, wiping the tea from his face while blatantly ignoring John’s dumbfounded expression. Finally, John plainly uttered: “… You have another brother?” He hadn’t moved an inch since that half-revelation had slipped from Sherlock’s lips. He couldn’t, the shock was too strong and it simply took over him for some good 15 seconds. He couldn’t even roll his eyes at Sherlock, as to seem scolding towards him for trying to avoid answering. John pressed on. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock straightened himself on the couch and found his composure again. With a stern tone, he replied: “It’s not that simple.”

Flailing for emphasis, John spewed out his thoughts regarding that extremely imprecise statement: “The hell it is! You have another brother! And you’ve never even mentioned it! Another Holmes roams the land. My goodness, there’re three of you… My God…” John looked equally overwhelmed as he sounded. He aimlessly pawed his mug and brought his still steaming tea to his lips. After a short sip he felt a bit better, but still quite aggravated. “Sherlock, how the hell? And Mycroft! He must know too! And yet he has never mentioned a third Holmes, not even slipped a tiny clue.” Leaving his mug aside, John massaged his temples as he tried to grasp the damned secrecy of the Holmes boys. “My goodness Sherlock, you don’t have this kid trapped on the London Tower, right?”

“Of course he’s not trapped in the London Tower. Don’t be daft. He’s just a… private person. He lives his own life. With that I mean he doesn’t like us much and would rather spend his whole life away from us…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he pictured his younger brother, the computer genius. It somehow annoyed him, the fact that Lucas had grown up to be so independent and reserved. “And well, I can’t say I blame him; I try to stay as far from Mycroft as it is possible, but he keeps trying to budge in my business every time he can…”

John quickly snapped, pointing a finger at his flatmate: “Don’t change the subject, I know how the state of affairs is between you two; I’m constantly in the middle of it. I want to know more about this third Holmes… what was the name you called him? Luke?”

“Lucas, that’s his name. _His mum_ gave him that silly catholic name.” Sherlock was now the one rolling his eyes at what he thought were preposterous notions. The Holmes household had never been a religious one, but Sherlock took it upon himself to create an even greater distance between him and the superstitions involved with the pious life. Nevertheless, he wasn’t really sure why he had just made that comment on Lucas’ name.

“Now Sherlock, don’t be rude. Lucas is a perfectly normal name. Plus, my name is straight from the Bible too; now you’re discriminating against religious sounding names? Give me a break, please.”  John now sounded preachy, yet slightly sardonic. Sherlock tsked his words away. John tried to keep the conversation going, so he softened his tone and mumbled: “So, Lucas Holmes… Is he older or younger than you? I’m guessing he’s your half-brother, since you mentioned ‘his mum’. And with such disdain Sherlock, why? Is he…?”

John was thinking very carefully on how to phrase his next words, when Sherlock heaved heavily and exclaimed: “Yes, he’s the mistress child. Happy now?” Sherlock then breathed out loudly and by poising his clasped hands before his eyes, visibly plunge into deep thought. John saw something very strange in Sherlock’s eyes as he spat those words. He saw shame.

For the first time, John could actually appreciate how much Sherlock cared for his family, and how something so trivial affected him. Maybe that was why he said relationships weren’t his deal and he noisily expressed how little he cared about ‘who was sleeping with whom’. Maybe his father being unfaithful to his (clearly beloved) mother had left a deep scar in Sherlock’s brilliant mind, causing that oddly adverse reaction to any kind of interpersonal bond he could possibly establish, being it friends, colleagues, partners and even his own family. Maybe that was why he was a loner, why he didn’t really trust anyone.

John was clearly over thinking everything, but that was exactly what he had learned from living with Sherlock Holmes. His friend was still wordlessly pondering, apparently unaware of his surroundings. John gave him a sad smile and fleetingly thought: ‘Don’t worry, I get it.’ Then sounding extremely careful and terribly apologetic, John stood up and said: “Well, umm, you clearly don’t want to talk about him, so I’ll just leave you to it. I guess you can tell me about this Lucas lad later…”

John could just walk two steps from his sofa before Sherlock reacted: “Oh, I will. I need you to at least be loosely informed of who he is before you meet him.” Sherlock looked up straight into John’s face, waiting for his reaction. The facial expression John Watson was able to pull amused him to no end.

“What? Why?” John shook his head and with eyes wide like plates, asked again: “Why would I meet him? Is he coming here?”

“No, we’re going to his place. But not right away, so don’t worry. He’s a ‘busy man’ who has ‘work to do’, so he’s delaying my ‘non-crucial’ work on purpose, the cheeky bastard.” Sherlock stressed his contempt for Lucas’ decisions by making quotation marks with his fingers. He looked grumpier than a wet cat.

John’s moralizing tone came back for a moment. “Well, I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose Sherlock. Remember, the world doesn’t revolve around you, as much as you wanted it to. And don’t call him a _bastard_ , it’s… inappropriate.” Then it went straight back to the panic ridden one: “But why would he want to meet me? Have you talk to him about me? How does he even know I exist?!”

Sherlock raised one of his thin eyebrows at that amazingly stupid question: “Take a wild guess.”

At first, John couldn’t think of anything at all, and then Mycroft’s sneaky methods jumped into his mind. He tried to shake that thought off as he started eying for possible hidden cameras. When it finally hit him, he replied feeling a bit dumb, but still full of hesitation: “…He reads my blog?”

“Obviously. It appears as if half of London reads your bloody blog.” Sherlock still looked somewhat upset as he rose from his seat and paced towards his violin. “That’s how he not only knows you exist, but is also gleefully informed of my every move. The point is he’s as curious about you as, say, Mycroft was before you moved in. You could say it’s just natural-sibling curiosity; I say he’s just being nosy.”  Sherlock took the violin firmly and placed it under his chin. He then slid the bow over the strings loudly and proceeded to make a god-awful screeching noise.

That was John’s cue to leave the room. Sherlock needed some ‘alone’ time and his little private concerts were the politest way in which he could effectively shoo John. He instead stayed on his spot, musing over the now melodic sounds the tortured instrument was producing. Were they sad and melancholic? Were they laden with anger and resent? Not much could be read into the miscellaneous tune he was played, although it actually sounded like the unholy mix between any action movie’s theme song and elevator music.

John decided he’d just ask. It’d be simpler that way, being blunt. “Sherlock, do you hate this Lucas kid? Is that why you’ve never mentioned him or even… ”

“No.” Sherlock cut him off without a single hesitation; he didn’t even stop playing. His voice sounded firm and definitive, but John still felt uneasy and unconvinced. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes, because he was staring out the window. After a short silence, Sherlock lowered his violin and turn back, to face John. He looked faintly staggered by John’s question. “Why would I hate him, John? I have no good reason to. He’s just my brother, and he’s the one that bothers me the least.”

“But you said he’s the… mistress’ son… And you sounded so…” John stuttered. He didn’t get what was going on. What happened to all those feelings he fleetingly saw within Sherlock?

“That’s not his fault. It’s my father’s. And I can’t really blame him either, because he’s only human. People make mistakes. They lie and cheat; it’s human nature. Lucas can’t be blamed for being the result of that, can he? That’d be extremely unfair and irrational. To shun him or hate him would be an emotional response, and sentiment driven decisions are the bad kind of decisions.”

“Oh.” Finally, John understood. Nothing had changed, Sherlock had never changed. He’d always been like this. He was rational, observant, cool-headed. He didn’t hate his brother because he had no reason to; a perfectly sound argument. That somehow seemed like the most appropriate response one could have on a situation like this, and possible the most difficult to get. But of course Sherlock was able to breeze through the emotional trauma something like that could’ve caused a normal person, because he always subtracted sentiment from the equation. He was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. Petty conflict like infidelities didn’t concern him.

While John was processing his new deductions, Sherlock resumed his concert, this time choosing a more upbeat tune. When John noticed the music again, he snapped out, sounding offended: “Okay. I know when I’m not wanted.” He snickered devilishly at Sherlock and made his way to the hall. Before he got to the stairs, he turned and yelled: “Oh, remember to get out of those lousy pyjamas and into the shower before we leave. You look bedraggled.”

“Mm-hmm.” Mumbled Sherlock, closing his eyes and smiling. 


	3. A cab ride

**An Inquiry for Lucas Holmes**

**Part 3 – A cab ride**

John looked intensely at the cab driver through the open window before he decided it seemed to be positively non-threatening. Sherlock raised his thin eyebrows and limited himself to getting into the cab as he checked the time on his Smartphone’s screen. 19.34, not too bad.

Sherlock sat, silent for a second, and greeted John in the cab with some blunt words: “Do you have to do that every time we get into a cab?”

“Yes, yes I do. The last time I ignored a cabbie, he almost killed you. Now I tend to think all cab drivers are serial killers, thanks to you.” John didn’t give Sherlock as much as a second look as he replied. He leaned over the seat and politely told the cab driver where they wanted to go. After that, he sat back and waited. The retort would surely come.

“Thanks to me? What did I do?” Sherlock looked truly baffled. John ignored him. Trying to clear himself from the blame, Sherlock gruffly insisted: “That supposition of yours is statistically impossible. There’s absolutely no way every cabbie in the world, or even in London has the wits and skill necessary to be even a regular killer, let alone a serial killer...” Sherlock stopped and doubted for a second. “A proficient one, at least. That man, the ‘proper genius’ cabbie… He was _different._ ” Sherlock’s voice became a thoughtful murmur and ended fading away. Sherlock then adopted his pensive position: fingers intertwined and a blank, lifeless stare.

Heavy silence fell unto the cab, effectively unnerving John. He was almost used to this kind of Sherlock-esque trances, but he quickly found out how distressed the memory of that cabbie got him. Sherlock thinking of that murderer so profoundly got him even more upset. He eyed his flatmate anxiously and tried to resume the conversation with an innocent, mostly irrelevant question: “So… what does your brother do for a living?”

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and visibly surprised, declared: “Oh right. I haven’t briefed you on Lucas yet; good thinking John.”

“Sorry, what? A briefing?” John now had to give Sherlock a questioning stare to confirm the absurdity he had just heard. Sherlock answered by nodding inconspicuously as he organised his knowledge and facts about Lucas. John thought of just resigning himself to it, but still tried to ask for the simpler version. “Sherlock, could you just tell me what…”

“Silence, you just need to listen and learn. Try to retain as much as you can, but don’t worry too much. I won’t quiz you.” John’s typically frustrated expression now graced his face. Sherlock smiled to himself. He really liked that façade on John, it amused him deeply. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m just doing this to enlighten you.”

John sighed and gave up. He didn’t even know why he had tried to fight it back. Sherlock always won. “Okay. I’m all ears, just ramble on.” He shrugged with exaggerated contempt and sat back, waiting. Sherlock huffed in response and continued his mental arrangement.

When he was done, he started his long-winded rundown. “Lucas Holmes was born on the third of June, 1987. He’s the son of my father, Siger Holmes and his PA, Cecilia O’Connell. Miss O’Connell was single and never married, thus the surname Holmes for her son. This was requested by my father; Lucas was his illegitimate, yet recognised son. Father never believed in the ridiculously rigid rules society had for children born out of wedlock.

“Because of this he not only gave his name to Lucas, but he also provided for him. He made himself responsible for the life he had inadvertently created; Father visited him regularly, took care of his health issues and gave him the same level of education and discipline Mycroft and I received.

“For Father, ignoring his own child was a bigger crime than having one outside his marriage. Mother agreed with him. That’s why she approved of the incorporation of Lucas to the family and household when Miss O’Connell passed away...”

That bit unsettled John. He had assumed ‘the lover’ was still alive. He thought she probably had raised Lucas in secret and on her own, with the discreet help of Mr. Holmes Sr. Maybe the Holmes boys caught up later. The story told otherwise. He was tempted to ask what had happened to Cecilia O’Connell, how had she died. John opted to keep his mouth shut.

“I was 13 when Lucas was formally introduced to us. He was… 5, I recall. Even then he was a very quiet individual. He was aware of his mother’s death, yet he never cried, at least not in front of me. I must admit, at first his sole existence conflicted me. By 14, I was done being a brat about it. Mycroft didn’t care much for him, not even when Father gave Lucas his old room. Mycroft was staying on the Cambridge lodge; he was on his University years. He never came back to live on the main house, so this was never an issue.” Sherlock’s tone was very detached and factual. John took notice.

“Lucas was a brilliant student. He had excellent grades, even better than my own. Then again, he was an extremely diligent boy; he barely had a rebellious phase and wasn’t burdened with the detective job I had established as my own before he was even born. Lucas graduated school at 16 with honours and aced his A-Levels in Further Mathematics and Computing. He then attended the University of Oxford and acquired a BA and Master in Mathematics and Computer Science. He attempted to get a PhD on MIT, but ‘got bored’ in the States and came back after less than a year. He said it wasn’t challenging enough. After ‘working independently’ for a year, he recently started working for MI6. If my source (Mycroft) is correct, Lucas is their new quartermaster.” 

Sherlock plainly concluded with those words and waited for John’s reaction. A low mumble of despair emerged from John’s lips. He was positively overwhelmed by all those hard facts. He knew Sherlock’s silence meant he could now ask questions, but he didn’t know where to start “Ah! Sherlock, that was too much. I can’t recall half of the things you just said! Do I really need to know all that stuff? Is it so necessary?”

Sherlock doubted for a moment and then whisper: “Not really.” John deflated loudly and was about to start complaining, when Sherlock continued, now with a louder tone: “It was just some basic information. It’s for you to stand on the same ground as Lucas. I’m not certain of this, but I’d bet he knows everything about you that’s posted online, and with you being such a ‘covert person’, there’s not much room for mystery.” Sherlock tried to sound mean, but he was grinning to himself. John didn’t quite catch on the irony, but instead felt slightly guilty and a bit exposed.

After trying to remember some of the million of Lucas’ personal details he had just heard, John was finally able to form a question: “Uh… you mentioned something about ‘independent work’? What does that actually mean?”

“He was a hacker. And he was notoriously proficient one, with world-wide renown and a bounty for his real name on some countries.  I suppose that’s how he got his current job, by hacking MI6 in order to prove something. Or maybe because he was bored and able to do it. I believe that’d be a better motivation, because I can’t think of any other reason to work for the Government…” There it was again, Sherlock sounding scornful. John gave him a concerned look that got widely ignored by his friend.

John started speculating again. Was Sherlock offended by Lucas’ decisions? Did he find them dull? Did he deem them wrong, stupid, wasteful? Did he feel responsible at some level? Did he just plainly and simply disapprove with no bigger reason than his ‘previous job’ being better, in comparison? Hacking for a living seemed like something Sherlock would absolutely approve of, and joining MI6 was the life choice Mycroft would have preferred.

John pondered on that last thought of his. Was the little exasperation on Sherlock’s behalf just an expression of his undying sibling rivalry with Mycroft? Could he actually **be** such a cock? John shrugged and accepted the fact that in the case of Sherlock Holmes, of course he could. “Sure, whatever you say.” John quietened down again and tried picking his brain for another question. “Ow, I seriously can’t think of anything else! I barely remember his current job. If something comes up, I’ll just ask. Is that okay with you?”

“I’m fine; it’s you the one with the fragile mind. Anyway, I doubt you’d even use any of the facts I just gave you efficiently, so it is ‘okay’.” Again, finger quotation marks. The subject of Lucas seemed to really grind Sherlock’s gears. “Plus, we’re almost there and… Oh bollocks. The bloody cake.” For a moment, Sherlock face went completely blank. After that, something clicked in his head and he sprung towards the cabbie. “Take us to the closest bakery. Quick! Our lives depend on the damned cake.”

As he sat back down, John coarsely commented: “Aren’t you exaggerating a bit? I mean… our lives aren’t exactly at stake just because you forgot to bring sweeties for your brother.”

All of the sudden, Sherlock’s expression turned grim. His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke: “You don’t know that for sure…” Silence followed; a terribly awkward silence. John gaped at Sherlock, who looked dead serious. A cold shiver crawled down John’s spine. Before he could dare to open his mouth, Sherlock continued: “Plus, if I don’t get him the bloody cake or some ‘offering’, as symbolic as it is, he won’t do the ‘thing’ I need him to do. He just won’t! The prickly prat.”

John remembered to breathe again. He huffed loudly and sulked silently, cursing Sherlock for being such a drama queen. Sherlock could tell by John’s fidgeting how seriously he had taken his words. It amazed him to no end, how much John seemed to trust him. An unusually warm smile emerged on Sherlock’s lips. As he was facing the window, John couldn’t catch a glimpse of it. Maybe this was for the better, it might’ve freaked him out a bit.

***

“Pick one or we’re going to be late.” John loudly rapped his shoe against the little bakery’s neat wooden floor. Sherlock had been wordlessly staring at the counter for the last 15 minutes and the situation was getting embarrassing. The poor clerk didn’t know what to do. She had tried to make a suggestion, just to get systematically shot down by Sherlock. Now she was too intimidated to talk, felt extremely uncomfortable, but was mostly worried about him noting how ‘evident’ her affair with her boss was after giving her a single glance. Even John could see all this. He insisted. “Sherlock, it’s almost eight o’clock and this is getting ridiculous. Could you please make up your mind? I’m pretty sure the bakery was closing and…”

“It was open when we arrived, so she must serve us.” Sherlock swiftly interrupted, making the clerk almost jump from her skin. He gave John an intense stare and then went back to the cake. There weren’t even that many to choose from, and yet he seemed deeply conflicted about the choice. “Plus, being in such a recondite street, this place mustn’t be too popular. They need my money, so she can’t complain.”

John stepped closer to Sherlock and gave him a disapproving look. “Now Sherlock, stop being so rude.” Sherlock didn’t answer. John heaved a sigh loudly. “How is it possible that you apparently know everything about your secret little brother, except what kind of cake he likes?” John folded his arms and shook his head, largely resigned to how terribly dumb his brilliant flatmate could sometimes be.

Sherlock raised his eyes from the counter again and gave John the most distressed look he could achieve. He could almost read John’s judgemental thoughts. His eyes were too telling, too sincere. He immediately felt the need to fend for himself. “Because it’s absolutely irrelevant, that’s why.” John huffed. He didn’t look convinced at all. “I give up, this is useless. You pick one, if Lucas doesn’t like he can shove it up his…”

“Okay. That’s enough. You go back to the cab, I’ll be right out.” John gently shooed Sherlock to the door and quickly came back. He grinned at the poor scared girl and muttered a meek “sorry”. She nodded, still visibly frightened and suggested cheesecake. She added some useful info: the cheesecakes were the freshest batch. She even mentioned a convenient ‘6 for the price of 5’ promo the shop supposedly had after five. John smiled sympathetically at her. ‘Oh, poor lass. She seriously wants to get rid of us.’

“Okay, please give me three chocolate and three… blackcurrant.” The girl sighed with relief and packed them up as fast as she could. John paid cash and told the clerk to keep the change, for her trouble.

He then proceeded to exit the store. Now Sherlock was the one doing the foot tapping. He looked annoyed. He pushed John into the cab, nearly ruining the cake in the process. He then jumped in it and instructed the cabbie to go to the original address. Only after settling everything, he thought of asking what have John chosen. After getting half of the answer, he concisely replied: “Chocolate? Generic.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I also got some blackcurrant cheesecake. So, don’t complain.” John spent the rest of the trip being careful for the baked goods. Sherlock plunged into one of his abstractions. He couldn’t quite figure out why John had chosen the blackcurrant, but it seemed strangely perfect for the occasion. Probably not Lucas’ favourite, bugger if he knew what he liked these days, yet it suited him. The only concrete fact he could deduce from John’s choice was he had inadvertently chosen Sherlock’s favourite.

Sherlock snapped from his daze as the cab braked. Sherlock paid the cabbie as John cautiously made his way round the car to join Sherlock at the entrance gate. It was one of those new posh buildings, filled with tons of expensive flats: three bedrooms, two bathrooms, plenty of lofts and balconies, all well lit, with high ceilings and an “übermodern” feel. The kind of place with parking space to spare. Even the lobby looked ridiculously loaded. This kid seemed to be doing well, moneywise.   

‘Blackcurrant…’ Sherlock’s thoughts bounced around. As soon as they stepped into the CCTV camera’s view, a stern voice asked them to identify themselves and their purpose through the speaker on the gate. “We’re here to see Lucas Holmes. We’re expected. You don’t need our names.” The voice muttered that sounded offended, but eventually opened the gate. Sherlock was still deep in thought. Leading the way, Sherlock walked into the building and down to the closest lift. John quickly fumbled at the doorman their names as he passed by him. A sharp noise announced the lift doors opening. Sherlock absently held the door as John paced behind him. John then proceeded to chastise him once more, now for being rude to the doorman. Sherlock wasn’t listening at all. ‘Could’ve he chosen it because I like it?’

Another ping noise and they’d reached their floor. Sherlock swiftly paced out of the lift, straight towards Lucas’ door. ‘Was it been a coincidence or does he actually know it’s my favourite?’ Sherlock mused to himself, ringing the doorbell. He gave John a fleeting look and smiled to himself. John naturally smiled back. ‘He knows.’


	4. A (leisure) visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my girl, Pola :P  
> Sorry I made you wait a year and a half for this chapter, beau.

The door swung open. John visibly tensed up. Sherlock noticed, sighing hopelessly.

“Hello Sherlock. You're late.” The greeter's voice was warm and affable. A young man who could've perfectly being a younger version of Sherlock appeared in front of them. John couldn't deny the resemblance, but the wide, welcoming smile that Lucas sported didn't seem much of a Holmes' staple.

Sherlock huffed loudly at his brother and indifferently stepped into the flat. Lucas turned his head for a moment to watch him go in. John remained frozen on the doorstep. Sherlock promptly sat on the nearest couch, almost burying himself in it. Seeing that John hadn't followed him, he leaned over and called. "John? Do you intend to come in or…"

This made John snap out of his daze. "Oh, sorry! Um, John Watson." He declared, still half stunned, offering his hand to the young man, who gladly took it and shook it without hesitation.

"Lucas Holmes. I’m so pleased to finally meet you, John. I've _heard_ a lot about you." John noted the evident stress as he juggled the pastries on his left hand. It unnerved him. Lucas, on the other hand, noticed the bakery package and rejoiced. "Oh, dear me, you actually brought what I asked for! How sweet of you, brother." Lucas grabbed them and gave a step back. "John, do come in. I'll get us some dishes and cutlery. I've just put the kettle on." He then walked away and into the kitchen with a chirpy swing to his pace.

Only after he'd left did John dare to walk into the living room, quietly shutting the front door. He softly paced toward Sherlock as he looked around with extreme curiosity.

The flat was incredible; massive, yet cosy, tastefully decored and in pristine conditions. Either Lucas had an extremely dutiful housekeeper or he was the world's tidiest twenty-something-year old. John was utterly impressed. Now he was finding it hard to believe someone so neat was related to Sherlock.

"Don't praise him so much, everything's tidy because he has just moved in." Sherlock stated this as John sat by him on the adjacent sofa. Apparently, he has been looking around as well, thought John. Smiling to himself, he wondered exactly how he could tell. Sherlock kept rambling on: "His last place was much shabbier than this ridiculously pompous loft Mycroft obviously got him..." John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock tried to ignore John’s reproachful look by dashing his critical eye about the room and furniture. After his scrutinizing didn’t result in anything useful, just a few out-of-place blond hairs and some odd glass stains, he shabbily replied to the question lingering in John’s face: "Don't give me that look; it's at walking distance of MI6, for heaven's sake! It’s essentially impossible to get a location like this without pulling some threats. He probably got him a nanny as well, seeing as he's not the only one who has been here..."

"Oh really? What else can you deduce from my humble lodgings, Sherlock? Is it all _that_ obvious?" Lucas' sarcastic voice got to them before he emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with the cake and the promised tea. He sauntered up to the coffee table and sat opposite to his guests. Carefully, he left the tray on the table and then adopted a very formal and apologetic tone. "I must admit, Sherlock, I might've tampered a bit with my surroundings.  Just to throw you off, my dear over-analysing brother." Sherlock gave him a swift noxious glare. "Oh, but don't get angry, I do the same with Mycroft. Because you're both so bloody nosy." He declared with a simple grin on his lips. John instantly felt some admiration for him.

“Say what you will, Lucas. I know you’re hiding something.” Sherlock sniffled and rashly picked a cup for himself.

“Of course I am hiding some things, this is where I live!” Lucas chuckled affably and gave a side glance to John. “I’m sure you also hide many things from me. It’s called privacy.”

Sherlock tsked loudly and stood up. John followed his movement as he paced to the kitchen. As he walked, he said: “I’ll get the kettle. After this, we have to work quickly.”

Lucas answered calmly as he served the sliced cake. “No. We’ll have some tea peacefully, then we’ll have a chat. And if you behave like a proper adult, I might help you with whatever you want me to hack.” Sherlock stood gapping in the doorway, as if he had misunderstood every single word Lucas had just uttered. As John raised his eyebrows doubtfully, Lucas gave him snide sigh and added: “See, that’s not ‘proper adult behaviour’. I remember Mrs. Holmes scolding because you’d never bother to act your age at any point of your life. Right about now, you seem to be employing now all those unused childhood moments. How jolly, Sherly!”

With a scrawny stomp and a deep growl, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, simply accepting every petty joke Lucas had thrown his way. Lucas felt he could’ve howled and hooted, yet limited himself to laughing quietly and catching a glimpse of John’s reaction over the rim of his glasses.

John looked stun-locked. When he noticed Lucas’ eyes on him, he blurted one of his usual answers to a Holmes’ trick. “That was… superb, Lucas.” He answered with a delighted smile. John leaned forward, as to be secretive with his next words. “I didn’t know people could even dare to talk to him like that.”

As to follow the cute enigmatic gesture, Lucas also approached his guest and muttered: “I know, normally I wouldn’t do so. He has heaps of nasty comebacks in the tip of his tongue, but won’t let them out _now_ because he needs me to do something for him. He’ll probably email me some as soon as you’re out of here. Or maybe he’s planning some horrific revenge in the form of chipping all my nice china or dying my poor cat’s fur. But don’t worry John, I’ll survive.” Lucas leaned back just as his brother made his way through the kitchen towards them. As he walked in front of him, Lucas gave Sherlock a wide sweet smile. Sherlock could almost see the sarcasm dripping from it. “It’s all fine and in good spirits. Isn’t that right, brother?”

Sherlock’s response was a resigned grumble as he poured hot water into the teacups. John chuckled to himself, amused at the notion of how submissive Sherlock was being. 

Lucas noted this and out of nowhere, followed up the comment he had made before. “Oh, Sherlock was an appallingly serious child. So severe and calculating, too busy being a detective to play football with anyone.” Lucas made a small offended gesture, met with evident surprise by Sherlock. John was delightfully confused. “I remember when we first met, we actually shook hands. I was, what, five, six?” Sherlock limited himself to nod as Lucas reminisced. Stroking his chin, he remarked: “That was a very odd day in my life.”

 “You didn’t play football either.” Sherlock tried derailing the conversation with a stout remark. “In fact, I remember the three of us being particularly awful at it. I wasn’t too keen on teamwork; you weren’t too keen on the outdoors… And Mycroft was fat as always.” Sherlock fell quiet as he stated matter-of-factly how dreadfully lazy kids they once were. John frowned as the silence stretched itself. After eyeing both Holmes brothers, he noticed how Sherlock had an impish smirk on his face and Lucas seemed to shiver a bit, as if he was cold or holding something in. He had a wicked smile too.

John was getting unnerved, so he opened his mouth to break the silence. And then both Lucas and Sherlock burst into laughter at that point.

“Oh Sherlock, you’re so mean with him. It’s not his fault, being pudgy. He’s really trying to burn it down now, I swear.” Lucas took off his glasses and swept a tear from his eyes while still giggling. Sherlock’s cruel japes really tickled his funny bone, it seemed.

“Oh, I know. I remind him of his non-existent diet whenever I get the chance. That’s what bureaucratic life does to you, Lucas. Be careful.” Sherlock’s smile was wide and sincere; he honestly was amused by them mocking their eldest brother.  

John frowned and carefully eyed both Holmes. ‘Ah, there’s the family resemblance. They’re both shrewd, wicked geniuses.’ He took a sip of tea and waited for the cruel laughter to die down. If he wanted to chime in, he had to wait it out, look for the exact moment. As Lucas put his glasses back on and Sherlock placed the kettle back on the tray, John asked “Lucas, how come you’re so tidy and Sherlock’s such a horrible mess of a person?”

Both Holmes had to do a double take, followed by a new burst of laughter from Lucas. John leaned over to take his portion of cake, fully aware of Sherlock’s burning stare on him. It made him slightly giddy, to win for once.

After a few deep breathes, Lucas finally regained composure and answered: “Ah, I’m not sure, John. I’d blame genetics or upbringing, but I know firsthand how good and strict Mrs. Holmes is with her children…” A swift longing look graced Lucas’ face. It encompassed his doleful eyes and a faint, reminiscing smile. John’s eyes turned to his side fast enough to catch Sherlock’s reaction before he knowingly became inscrutable. John had never seen him quite so wistful.

“In that point, I can’t argue with you.” Sherlock retorted. The sudden sound of his voice made John jump a bit. “Plus, Mycroft is even tidier than you are. The word I’d use to describe him is… anal.” The Holmes boys nodded in silent agreement as John gave up on applying logic to them and ate a morsel. It was surprisingly good for ‘a last batch of the day’ cake.

Lucas mimicked John and ate some cake as well. Sherlock’s portion remained untouched. As he sipped some tea to wash the cake down, Lucas glanced at John over the rim of his glasses. His excessively sincere facial expression made him giggle internally and pushed him to speak. “Is there something else you want to ask me about my dear brother, John? You look… inquisitive.” Sherlock leaned slightly to give John a good look. Lucas noted this and followed up with an example: “Do you know why you won’t see him eat anything at all while he is on a case?”

Lucas pointed at the blackcurrant cheesecake slice lying intact by his brother’s cup of tea, which was growing cold and bitter by the minute. John gave the forsaken food a pity smile and answered: “Oh that I know. It had something to do with being distracted by digestion.”  Sherlock looked as if he might want to complain, correct or add details to that insignificant explanation, but he limited himself to cross his arms and nod with minimum energy. John approved of such a controlled action, so he gave him a sympathetic nod and turned back towards Lucas. With a completely solemn tone, he spoke: “What I’d really like to know is… was he always such a loner? Did he ever have friends growing up?”

Both Sherlock and Lucas raised their brows at the request. Lucas chortled in silence as Sherlock jumped on his seat and rumbled: “What, why are you asking that? And why are you asking _him_? You can ask me that sort of information, if you really _need_ to know and…”

“I know I can, and I have asked. But now I’m asking your nice brother, so shut it for a moment.” John stared Sherlock down, who admitted defeat by pursing his lips and burying himself deeper into the couch. Lucas was infinitely amused by this dynamics. “Lucas, please… elaborate at your heart’s content.”

“Well, I have to admit this fact first: none of the three of us was an extremely sociable kid. At all. Mycroft has always preferred ‘colleagues’ over friends and still treats everyone as his underling, so that’s easy to figure out. He never cared much for me, or I for him. It’s nowadays that he likes to snoop around my life and work. Regarding myself, I am now quite sociable, at least in comparison, but I must admit I grew up in cybercafés, meeting most people I got to know through and because of the Internet. That’s why none of us played football after all, we seldom saw each other.” Lucas smiled as he reminisced his childhood and teenage years as John tried to figure out how he’d grown up ‘more normal’ than Sherlock, having his youth almost completely void of human contact. Lucas continued: “And Sherlock… he was the real loner. Every person he spoke about was either dead or ‘a client’.” Lucas whimsically gesticulated before he turned his attention to his brother and directed his words to him. While pointing at Sherlock and fuzzily trying to remember some details, he nattered: “I cannot recall a single acquaintance of yours ever being mentioned more than twice, but if I’m remembering this correctly you did have a friend in University, didn’t you? Some fellow named Tristram, maybe. Or Travis… Trevor?”

Sherlock caught Lucas’ hint. This story was his to tell, but he _had to_ tell John eventually. “Yes, Trevor. Victor Trevor.” Lucas snapped his fingers satisfied and nodded assertively. John’s determined façade was replaced by one of distress and perplexity as he slowly placed his fork back on the cake’s saucer. Sherlock leaned over the table and picked up his lukewarm cup of tea. To John’s belated surprise, he took a long winded sip, which he followed with a shallow sigh while squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I’ll tell you about him some other day, John. Right now I have a case to solve, so more no distractions. You,” he turned to his brother and adopted a stern, more practical tone. “Work, now. I’ve entertained you long enough. Let’s go.”     

Both Holmes promptly stood up. Sherlock strutted with his own cup towards the kitchen. A splashing noise was heard, followed by the tinkle of porcelain against metal. Lucas remained, warily waiting for his guest’s reaction. Aghast, John stared at Sherlock as if he moved away. His face still showed a mixture of deep puzzlement, now mixed in with utter disbelief, which was accented his unblinking eyes and gaping mouth. In his head bounced a name he had never heard before.

Before Lucas could say anything, John snapped out of his daze. He quickly met Lucas’ worrisome gaze and pushed a stuttering sentence out of himself, as to appease him. “Uh, um… I’ll… do the wash-up!” He proceeded to swiftly rise and gather the scattered dishes on the coffee table. “Don’t worry about this, I’ll tidy it up. You two go and… do the illicit investigations you need to do, I suppose.” With a diligent smile, he picked up the tray and directed his steps to the kitchen door.    

Sherlock exited calmly and gave a fleeting look at his flatmate passed by his side. No words or questions from him, just as he expected. John was getting quite good at the ‘living with Sherlock Holmes’ business. Sherlock waited for Lucas to reach him before giving him a piece of his mind. With his voice as low as his anger allowed him to, Sherlock huskily spat: “Why did you do that?”

Lucas shrugged and without breaking a stride, answered: “I don’t know, brother. Maybe I did it because he’s nice; too nice for you.” After a short pause, Lucas felt he needed to add some elaboration. “Try considering the situation from my point of view, Sherlock. I see you’ve finally found someone decent, who can cope with all your madness, doesn’t mind your invasively obsessive ways, really believes in your ‘consulting detective’ gimmick, and to boot it all, he seems to actually like you. And you like him back! Do you get where I’m going with this?” Lucas could barely hide the thrill within his hushed words. “Sherlock, I see hope for you, I really do. So don’t spoil it by keep your dirty laundry hidden, please.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he held back his toxic response to all that sentimental crap. Biting his lip, he limited himself to say: “Alright, good for me. But did you have to spout Victor’s name? The way I see it, you’re just pulling my leg.” Again, a mellow shrug from Lucas’ as an answer. Sherlock’s annoyance only flared and spiked. “I don’t spill your secrets just like that, Lucas. Neither do I care to meddle with your relationships. And you heartily know I could if I wanted to.” Sherlock gave his brother a quick, yet sharp look and found exactly what he had expected to find. “Example, I do not care who is leaving their short, blond hairs all over your clothes. I notice. I see everything. Yet I don’t comment on it.” 

Sherlock’s cruelly lined remarks were met by Lucas’ smug face. With a condescending smile and an incredible ease, he loudly announced: “Those are my Turing’s hairs, genius. And Turing is my cat, so appease your inner machinations, please.” Sherlock frowned baffled and reviewed the evidence. Lucas patted his back and cooed him. “Great deduction, though. Very… imaginative. Good job.”

“Say what you will, you rotten liar. That’s not cat hair.” Sherlock’s knuckles whitened and his pout increased as he fleetingly lost control over his own words. Holding back any other comment he had left, he dryly confessed: “This is why I don’t speak to you or Mycroft. You both make me feel like a brawling child, all over again.”

Lucas chuckled as he sat before his complex PC setup. “Hmm, I guess you are right, dear brother.”


	5. A (business) visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooooorry for the long wait, dear reader.   
> Here, have an extra long final chapter.
> 
> An epilogue might follow this, if I ever get around to writing it.

**An Inquiry for Lucas Holmes**

**Part 5 – A (business) visit II**

Sherlock scrambled about in his pocket and produced a rough note, written hastily against a wall because the cab was already there when he remembered to write it down. He handed it to Lucas, who gave it a pitiful look before attempting to ask what it was. “It’s all you need to know. I’m quite sure you can figure out my handwriting. Now, hack away!”

Lucas raised his brows as he tried to decipher the scribbled words written on runny blue ink. Simultaneously, he pressed the ON button on his PC, a big yet stylish desktop. Right by the side of the tower were three Mac books, staked on over the other, and a tablet. Two of the Macs looked outdated and scrawny under the newest one, the one Lucas was currently using, for sure. As the screen light up, Lucas tipped his password as fast as he could. So fast, in fact, that Sherlock only got about three fifths of it.

“Do you really need these many computers? It seems like an awful waste of money.”  Sherlock traced his finger over the rim of one of the Mac books. It was very dusty. Lucas extended his hand over the abandoned Mac books to pick the active one, and opened it for a moment before closing it and sliding it into a laptop bag. He then picked the tablet and scribbled something in.

“If you’re trying to extort a free computer from me, you’ll have to try harder. I still use some of those old shells for storage. You may think the space on the web is limitless, but life has taught me some things should be left offline. It’s not a space issue, is a security one. I don’t even trust my own code anymore.” Sherlock gave his brother a fleeting eye, to evaluate how serious he was being. His conclusion was ‘dead serious’. As his brother gestured some characters into the tablet, Sherlock could see the dreadfully real fear in his eyes. In the soft shake of his hands and purse of his lips was the memory of some terrible mistake he’d made.

Sherlock opted to change the subject. “I do hope you’re not talking about porn. It’d be so lowly of you to have the same gritty needs the average male has.” He blurted out. Lucas stopped his worrisome activities long enough to throw a venomous look at his brother. He then turned his attention to the PC’s large screen, where he started to click around, typing every once in a while.

Whilst looking directly at his work, he retorted: “Oh, don’t patronise me with your unrealistic conduct standards, please. Normal people have needs, and a sexual appetite to appease. So belt up; if I wanted to, I’d watch porn. Loads of porn. I’d even show you some, and delight in the shock of your virginal soul.” Lucas gave himself a brief pause to turn and smirk forebodingly at his brother. Sherlock didn’t seem too bothered by the idea, mainly because of how ridiculous it sounded. Lucas returned to his hacking job, slightly disappointed of how unmoved Sherlock was by his threats. He felt the need to casually add: “How silly of you to think I’d leave my porn computer lying around the flat...”

“True enough. I guess a device as such would be closer, if not _inside_ the bedroom. May I go and…” Sherlock gave a step back. Lucas shook his head with determination. ‘A-ha, there’s where he’s keeping all his secrets.’ Sherlock thought as he return to where he was standing before. He added a mental note: ‘Sneak into his room before leaving.’ “Well, if those are for storage and the one in the bag’s obviously for work, what’s this one for?”

“Guess. No, better, _deduce_ it. Aren’t you the great consulting detective after all?” Lucas defied cockily. Sherlock was already halfway through his analysis. Simple optical mouse, three buttons and wireless. Broad keyboard, almost new by the pristine state of all the vowels. Large LED screen, 20’1 inches. Tower… processing power… RAM… Sherlock scoffed as he stumbled upon the characteristic he couldn’t possibly deduce with an intent glance. Lucas only chuckled and commented: “I knew the technical features would make you hesitate. There’s no bleeding way you’d know any of the qualities of this baby, I built it myself.” Lucas stroked the tower lovingly with his right hand. “And I changed the keyboard yesterday. Otherwise, you would’ve known. Maybe.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows with feign interest. “It’s my gaming PC. Don’t tell Father, he thinks it’s a terribly mind-numbing hobby.”

Sherlock gave his brother a callous look and added: “Not surprisingly, I concur. But I honestly don’t care to agree with Father at all. If playing Warcraft or Diablo keeps you sharp on the hacking, better for me. So get on it now.” Lucas smiled to himself, as did Sherlock for his part while facing towards the kitchen.

***

John scrubbed a dish absent-mindedly, soaked it under the warm water flushing from the faucet and suffered while thinking: ‘I shouldn’t have agreed to do this. No, I shouldn’t have even offered! Bloody hell, Lucas must think I’m Sherlock’s bleedin’ nanny.’  He sighed and perched the plate on the drying rack.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s voice pierced the numbing sound of plates clattering. “John!” He called loudly from somewhere farther away than the living room. John paused, trying to infer the motive of the call. Because of Sherlock’s tone, he was expecting something alarming to follow the yell. Instead he got a simple: “Um… Are you doing alright?”

John _hmmphed_ with exasperation and answered: “Yes Sherlock, I’m doing fine. It’d be lovely if you could come and help me, but I’m sure…” John lowered and slowed his words as he expected to be interrupted at any moment.

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy, um, **we** are busy. Terribly busy, but keep up the good housework.” And he was. Sherlock’s voice now sounded shifty and a bit farther away. John breathed heavily and sulked to himself, while grabbing the next dish from the soapy water which filled the sink.

With the corner of his eye, he noticed a pair of tiny china dishes, neatly laid together. One had a bit of murky water in it, the other one or two brownish pellets shaped as fish. John didn’t quite process what those little saucers implied, as he was too focused on scrubbing bits of chocolate from the plates.

***

“You shouldn’t exploit your _only_ friend like that, Sherlock. He might run away, you know.”

“He offered, I did or said nothing. Plus, he likes being the tidy one. He has a lot of housewife within him.” Lucas chortled and Sherlock gave him a swift disapproving eye.

Sherlock leaned over his brother’s shoulder, staring at the computer’s bright screen. Outwardly random characters popped in the screen. Lucas seems to understand everything that the cluttered up interface was spewing at him, because he reacted and interacted with the random letters and numbers at an unbelievable speed. The clatter of his fingertips was turning into a constant _hum_ sound, disturbed only by the occasional clicking noise coming from the mouse he seldom touched. Sherlock felt slightly overwhelmed, but suspected that his brother was just showing off.  “That doesn’t look all that complicated…”

Lucas, while continuously tipping, shrugged carelessly and smirked. Then sharply turned to Sherlock and snapped at him. “Oh, really? Well now, you do it then.” Sherlock kept looking at the screen, at the swift motion of his sibling’s finger over the keyboard and the precision he seemed to have even without the need to watch what he was writing. He backed off, standing up right and stepping back. “Uh-huh. I thought so. Now shut up, I’m working my magic.”

Sherlock huffed noisily. He tried to distract himself by staring at the spine of the books randomly stacked on the nearest shelf. Most of them were on informatics and software development. Those were dusty too, his little brother had probably memorised them already. When Sherlock’s line of sight lingered on the general direction of Lucas’ bedroom, the youngster’s voiced made him pause. “So, why am I doing this, again? It eludes me why you’d want to know this kind of details. This fellow strikes me as a very regular man… Is he dead?”

“No, he’s not dead. He’s my client.” Sherlock slowly paced towards the door, looking at the ceiling. He quickly eyed his brother, just to meet his gaze of censure. He shrugged and shifted further on. “What is it?” Lucas just rolled his eyes and kept working. Sherlock continued: “I need to know if he’s being completely truthful. Every good investigation considers the client as a suspect as well, and his ridiculous security status only makes him more suspicious... Are you done?”

“Almost.” Lucas declared stoically. His fingers kept tipping, now at a regular, more human rate. The clicking increased. “Remind me never to hire you for anything.” He added concisely. After staring at the screen for a bit, he signalled to his brother with his index finger. Sherlock had almost slid into the bloody room. With disappointment, he sighed and strode back where he had started. “Done. Is this all you need?”

Sherlock nodded energetically. He marvelled for a second at how fast and efficiently his sibling had pulled every single piece of information he had required, from the most basic facts, like date and place of birth, to the most infamous details, such as his multiple bank accounts, the last countries where the man in question had being assigned to and the last place he had stopped for tea. It even included what he had! Sherlock could scarcely believe such records existed.

“I can send you all those CCTV recordings by Mega or you could pass me the memory stick I assume you must be carrying with you…” Sherlock immediately produced the said artefact from his pocket. “Oh good. But, it’s too little space, 4 gigabytes. It won’t do.” Sherlock sneered and mumbled something about being ‘enough for regular humans’ before approaching his brother cautiously. This startled Lucas a bit. He reacted by stating: “Huh, but don’t worry. I must have some 32Gb sticks lying around here, somewhere… Ah, here. See; now step back, you’re invading my personal space.”

Sherlock leaned over his shoulder, just as he’d done before. It was with a very different intention now. His demeanour was also very different. His face was sombre, paler. His voice wavered ever so slightly when he spoke. “I need to ask you something else…” He whispered huskily. As the files danced onscreen unto the USB devices, Sherlock picked up a random pen and scribbled down a name. With utmost secrecy, he slid the paper into his brother’s palm. Now, standing very straight and motionless, he muttered lowly: “What do you know about _him_?”

Lucas held the note in his trembling fingers. He didn’t want to open it. Something within told him he already knew whose name it contained. “Sherlock, why…” He couldn’t stop his words from trailing off. He knew his voice was gone. Gulping down painfully, he took the piece of paper and carefully opened it with the tips of his fingers. He read it once, twice, thrice. He read it once more before crumbling it into a tiny ball and throwing it to the bin. The fleeting thought of swallowing down the piece of paper crossed his mind. The idea struck him as overdramatic, and yet it might’ve helped to effectively deliver the message he was about to put into words. Before his brother could open his mouth, he stated his opinion. “No.” A low glottal sound came from Sherlock. Lucas ignored it and continued: “Back off. Don’t look for him, don’t try to approach him or contact him.” Sherlock’s physical reaction was a baffled look and a response that stayed in his head as Lucas brashly interrupted again:  “Don’t you dare, Sherlock! If you mess with Moriarty you will end up… dead.” Lucas felt the colour abandon his face. A pinch of pity showed in his brother’s face. “Please Sherlock, listen to me. This is dangerous, **he** is dangerous.”

Sherlock leaned on the desk, trying to be casual. He spoke with the softest, most comforting tone he could conjure up. It’d been years since he last had to comfort his little brother. “Stop being so theatrical, I get it. You don’t want me to seek him out. Yet, I must.” Lucas gargled a protest, but now Sherlock was the one cutting in. “I know for a fact he’s dangerous. It’s terribly evident, but I just need to know who he is, or what he’s doing. When I first heard of him, he was sponsoring a serial killer, for heaven’s sake.” Sherlock gesticulated grandly, but Lucas wasn’t moved. He limited himself to look apprehensive and shake his head disapprovingly. “I don’t mean to… confront him. I just need to know what he’s up to…”

Swiftly, Lucas stood up and faced his brother. Sherlock stood a head higher than Lucas, but still felt diminished and vexed when he spoke. “Sherlock, listen to me. You want me to tell you what I know of Moriarty? Alright, here you go. His name means Death. Playing his game will only get you killed. Are you hearing what I’m saying? Killed! Get involved with him and you’ll die. Or worse, he’ll let you live, but kill everyone around you. And I know you like to think you’re a tough, self-determining lone wolf, but answer me this… Would it be okay if he killed me? Or Mycroft, Father, Mrs. Holmes?” Lucas bit his lip and stared hard at his brother, not hiding the fact he was growing more teary-eyed by the second. Sherlock looked utterly unmoved. Too stern, in fact. It was the kind of face you’d use as a mask. Lucas felt defeated. He collapsed into his chair, closed his eyes briefly and spoke once again, with a thin, wispy voice: “What about John?”

For a moment, Sherlock’s mask shattered.

A hushed, yet troubled cry came from the kitchen. “Um… Lucas? Lucas! There’s a cat clawing the window here. Should I let it in?” The Holmes brothers held their stare. Now with a higher, more urgent voice, John added: “Lucas! It’s… it’s trying to pry the lock open! Uh, what should I do?!”

No reaction from either Holmes, especially the eldest. Lucas swallowed bitterly and squeezed his hands into fists with impotence. Sherlock remained very still, propped like a lamppost in front of his brother. His expression was unfathomably bleak, but simultaneously he was scheming. He needed to find him, but also to keep John in the dark. His fingers twitched involuntarily. His brother noticed.

Lucas was the first to move, breaking the impromptu stare-off. He roused himself from his seat a lazily walked towards the hallway. Before speaking, he punched Sherlock hard on the arm; he didn’t flinch. “Yes, John, let it in. That’s my cat, Turing.” Lucas peeked over the corner and caught a glimpse of Turing, proudly pawing his way into the living room as if he owned the place.

Slightly confused John Watson followed the cat’s movement with his eyes from kitchen doorway. He was drying his hands with a tablecloth. “Oh, the dishes are ready. Are you lads… done?” The tactful tone he was using evidenced the fact he _might’ve_ heard some of their quite loud strife. 

“Yes, we’re done. Thank you so much for your kindness, John. Sherlock doesn’t deserve you as a flatmate; you’re too good a person for him.” Lucas beamed at him again, with that sweet warm smile of his. Now John could actually see some Sherlock in him, even in that welcoming grin. “It was a pleasure to meet you, John.” He then added cheekily: “You run a very amusing blog, too. It’s a fun read, all those wacky shenanigans of yours. But I’m seriously taken aback by the idea of him carrying you around. He doesn’t _make_ you go, right?”

Sherlock appeared behind his sibling, silent and shadowy as he could sometimes be. Surprisingly, Lucas didn’t seemed startle, like the common folk would be. “I heard that, you smug snake. Stop trying to scare John away.” He turned now from his brother to his friend and hastily announced: “Alright. Pick up your coat, we’re leaving. Lots of thing to do tonight! Are you up for a _stakeout_?” He sounded so jolly and filled with purpose, Lucas had to frown at it.

 John looked at Sherlock, bewildered. His excited tone was not a good sign, he knew. “Um, no, Sherlock. I’m up for work tomorrow, at 7am. So, no more stakeouts for me, thank you.” Now John turned back to Lucas. As he shook his hand goodbye, he softly said: “Oh, it was nothing. Thank you for all your help and hospitality.”

Sherlock gave a wide glance around the perimeter, accompanied by a bored-sounding sigh. He then stepped in between the two men and gently, yet rudely pushed them away. Lucas didn’t bother with complaining, he just gave his brother a jaded look. John tried to protest, but had to react before he was able to speak, as his coat was now soaring through the air towards him. “Here, coat, take it. Now, let’s go. Busy, busy, my brain is now working at full speed and we don’t have time for common courtesies. Come on, come on!”

Again, pushing and pulling, Sherlock tried to direct John towards the exit. John protested loudly, but also wondered why he was being so physical and persistent about leaving. What Sherlock would commonly do was just leave without him, but not too fast, as for John to be able to catch up. Finally, he just complied with resignation. He mouthed one last goodbye at Lucas, who in return waved softly. Sherlock didn’t even say ‘goodbye’; he just hurriedly shut the door behind him.

Lucas stood there for a moment, quiet and motionless, feeling dreadfully apprehensive for both men, but mostly for poor, blameless, tag-along John Watson. Lucas was aware that he was both a soldier and a medic, making him a terrific partner in crime-solving for his brother, yet the sole mention of Moriarty had changed his prospects for them. That name made him feel physically ill, too weak and powerless to even properly warn his brother. He now also felt both responsible for their lives, and guilty. All his guilt from the past caught up with him in an instant. Every fatal failure he had ever experienced and blamed himself for, dancing inside his head. Every dead friend in the past, all the agents that would die in the future…

“No!” Lucas pursed his lips, closed his eyes shut and balled his fists. He breathed in, counted up to four and let the air out. After shaking the dreadful thoughts from his mind, he sluggishly paced into the kitchen and quietly sat on the nearest stool. He picked the slice of cake Sherlock had barely touched and proceeded to stuff his face thoughtlessly. As he leaned over to pour himself some lukewarm tea, a quick rap on the door interrupted him. Lucas straightened himself and gave the door a confused stare. The knock redoubled itself. “Who…?”

***

“You were a child back there! Shame on you, Sherlock.” John had never felt the urge to smack Sherlock in the jaw bubble up inside him so quickly. This time he almost succumbed to it; instead he just swatted him in the ear with the back of his hand. ‘That ought to teach him a lesson.’ He thought with much hope.

Sherlock winced and remained silent. He wasn’t going to fight John about it, knowing he was absolutely right. He also was somewhat sorry for the juvenile outburst, but it was the only way to exit the situation as swiftly as he needed to. John kept complaining loudly as they walked into the lift, but Sherlock was lost in thoughts, so every word of John’s passed right over him.

The fact was Lucas’ news disturbed him tremendously. His confirmation of Moriarty’s dangerous nature only soured the scene for him. Sherlock knew this Moriarty character was a forced to be reckoned with and in any other moment of his life this wouldn’t have mattered at all, but now he wasn’t alone. He had John in his life now. What if Moriarty got to him? What was his plan in case John got hurt? What would he _do_ if John was…? 

He would only admit to himself (and only to himself) that he’d panicked. Uncertainty and vulnerability weren’t things he was used to feeling, nor did he like to. Insecurity was a cagey feeling, like a narrowing sensation in the chest, a thickening of the air surrounding him. Sherlock grimaced as the bright numbers on the lift’s screen decreased. It was repulsive.

Now, he wasn’t sure how to proceed with the Moriarty business. He would have to hold off his investigation for a while and focus on John’s integrity and safety. Sherlock mentally shuffled his ideas, weighing the danger level for each. With a sharp sting of remorse, his last case came to his mind. ‘The Blind Banker’, John had called it in his obnoxious little blog. That one had been dire, to say the least. What the future held worried him. And worrying was the nastiest, most hypothetical feeling of them all. “Feelings are useless…” He concluded out loud.

The lift’s door opened with a swift motion and a cheerful ring. As they walked out of it, John was still sulking, now to himself, and Sherlock stayed deadly quiet. John directed himself to the lobby’s counter to announce they were leaving as Sherlock kept slowly making his way to the wide double doors.

He raised his eyes; a man was coming in. John said something along the lines of “Wait for me!” and Sherlock ignored him. He was too busy observing. The man hastily trotted into the hall, and without much care bumped unto Sherlock, who had to step back not to fall. He stopped for a heartbeat, maybe to apologise, and gave him half a look before he kept going. Sherlock followed the man as he walked past him. He made a gesture to the doorman, who was still fumbling about with John. And then he stepped into the lift, and disappeared from Sherlock’s view.

John hurried back to Sherlock’s side and blundered: “Sherlock, what the hell’s going on? Why wouldn’t you answer? And who was that guy? Do you… know him?” John gave Sherlock a puzzled look and tried half-heartedly to hail any passing cab.

“No.” _Tailored suit_. _Standard issue haircut_. _Aggressive walk and derisive swagger_. “He’s an MI-6 agent _.” Outstanding build. Scars_. _Dishevelled clothes_. _Concealed weapon: Walther PPK/S_. “One of those double 0. A dangerous man, and probably a friend of my…” Sherlock’s words faded. He had seen too much. _Blond hair_. _Cat scratches on his hands_. _And the look he gave me_. “Oh. Oh no. He’s shagging him.”


End file.
